


Collected

by Penelopiad



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 17:03:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 16,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10858308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penelopiad/pseuds/Penelopiad
Summary: A collection of tumblr ficlets written in 2014 and 2015 (all 1988)





	1. pining!Jonny

**Author's Note:**

> all of these were originally posted on tumblr.  
> They are posted here more or less in chronological order from early 2014 to mid-late 2015.  
> appropriate warnings at the beginning of each chapter.

 

 

Jonny turns off the TV when the credits start to roll. The room is plunged in darkness except for some of the city lights spilling yellow and orange through the tall windows, casting shapes over his furniture, over Kaner beside him.

If Jonny closes his eyes and holds his breath, he can hear: the low hum of the city, the whistling of the Chicago winter winds and, closer, the deep, slow breaths Kaner takes in his sleep—the irregular smack of his lips, the faint high sound of air through his nose. 

If he keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend that he woke up in the middle of the night with Kaner asleep beside him in his bed. Not on the sofa, or across the room, but nearer. Close enough Jonny would only have to move his hand a few inches to feel Kaner’s skin under his fingers. Close enough he could probably feel Kaner’s breaths on his neck, or shoulder, or face, right there, in the dark, and fall back asleep to the sound of it.

It’s not something he thinks about often, him and Kaner like that. It’s not—it’s just there, under his skin, and it’s normal enough, and familiar enough that he doesn’t pay much attention to it most of the time. Not like an itch that needs scratching, or the throb of a bruise that won’t go away. Just a quiet, constant presence under his skin, somewhere deep behind his ribs. Something he barely realizes is there, he’s so used to it.

But there are times like this one, where the night seems to be too long, and the Chicago lights too bright, the space of his apartment too big and empty. Nights where it gets pulled out of him like it needs to make itself known and acknowledged—remembered. It aches, then, the pressure of it, of what he wants, craves, even.

Looking out, Chicago is asleep and vibrant all at once, a sight Jonny knows, has looked at hundreds of times—the same lights, the same blue shadows stretching around the living room. Tonight, he feels out of synch with all of it. Kaner sleeps, and Jonny thinks of home—Winnipeg—and how much simpler it’d be to be there now, how maybe it wouldn’t feel like he’s taken a side-step into the wrong direction. 

Jonny takes a deep breath through his nose, tries to fill his lungs until he can’t anymore, and even then it doesn’t feel like enough, more like his ribcage is too tight and won’t let itself expand. He’s forced to exhale when his lungs burn way too soon.

He reaches to the back of the sofa to grab the blanket there, drop it on Kaner without waking him up, but the small movement makes him stir anyway. Kaner grumbles and sits up slowly, leans back, and Jonny has to move his hand away so it doesn’t end up caught between Kaner’s head and the sofa. He still brushes Kaner’s hair with his fingers, and somehow even that’s too much, like an electrical shock through his arm, down his spine.

He tightens his hand on the edge of the seat cushion.

“Guess, I should go,” Kaner says, muffled behind his hands as he rubs his face.

“Don’t be stupid, take the guest bedroom. I think there’s some of your stuff in one of the drawers still.”

Kaner smiles at Jonny, lazy and soft, and Jonny can’t even look away. “Yeah. Thanks man.” 

He’s half-way out of the living room when Jonny says, “I’ll wake you up tomorrow. Jogging.”

“Ugh. Fuck you.”

Jonny laughs and waits to hear the sound of the guest room door closing softly before getting up.

In his bedroom, he looks out at Chicago for a moment and holds his breath. Still the hum of the sleeping city. Still the whistling of the winds rattling the glass. But nothing else.

 

 


	2. high school indecent proposal

 

 

“So,” Patrick says dropping his book on the table and himself in the chair in front of Jonny, “we should totally fuck.”

“Jesus Christ.” Jonny buries his face in his hands while Patrick sends an apologetic wave at the librarian. “What the hell, Kaner?”

“No listen, I think it’s a perfect idea"I tend to disagree.” Jonny sniffs and goes back to reading his book. Kaner slouches in his chair and kicks at Jonny’s shins. “Quit it.”

“You haven’t heard my argument, yet.”

“Fine, fuck,” Jonny says closing his book with a bang. It’s his turn to send a wave to Mrs. Brown, but it’s whatever, she already hates them anyway.

“Look. We, like, graduate this year,” Kaner says, leaning forward on the table.

“I’m aware.”

Kaner kicks him again. “Shut up, jerkface. I’m seventeen and I don’t want to be a fucking virgin when I start college, that’s pathetic.”

“I’m sure you can find someone to have sex with you, Kaner. Someone blind. And deaf.”

Kaner narrows his eyes and Jonny smiles at him, but in the end Kaner doesn’t take the bait. Screw him, Jonny’s hilarious. 

“Yeah, but, like, I also don’t want to be fucking new at it. What if I get with a hot chick during Fresher Week and I fucking suck because I’ve never practiced. You gotta practice eating pussy, man, it’s like fucking hockey, no one’s good the first time.”

“I’m gonna overlook the fact that you just compared hockey to eating a girl out. That’s just wrong, man.”

“I mean, Jonny, that practice makes perfect. Because, like, what if I suck, right? And then she goes around and tells all her friends who tell all their friends, and next thing I know I’m on every freshmen blacklist as the guy who can’t, like, perform. I’ll fucking die a virgin, man, and that’s no way to die.”

Jonny has to give it to Kaner, he’s a stupid asshole, but he’s a stupid asshole that can strangely make sense sometimes. Except—

“Just one thing, though. Just a tiny detail.”

“Shoot.”

“I’m not a goddamn girl. I do, in fact, have a dick.”

Kaner moves his hand dismissively. “Whatever, it’s about building confidence. Besides, I’m not against getting a dicking on the side, wouldn’t want to be blacklisted by the gays either.”

Jonny just stares at him.

“You could use the practice, too. Don’t fucking front.”

“I am _not _a virgin.”__

__Jonny isn’t okay. Sucking off Sid (and TJ, and Crow, and— _not at the same time, Kaner, for fucks’s sake_ ) after practice that one time totally counts as sex, come on. _It was in the locker room_. That’s like, extra bonus gay porno points right there._ _

__"Prac. Tice,” Kaner says, widening his eyes. “If you don’t completely suck, well you know, you can suck, of course, if you know what I—”_ _

__"Kaner.”_ _

__“Fuck you. What I mean is, if you’re not completely horrible at it, I’ll even let you fuck me. Maybe.”_ _

__Jonny’s brain does this thing it does sometimes when he’s confronted by a hard dick close to his mouth: it goes offline for a second or two there, reboots itself, like it needs time to process. _Jesus fucking Christ_._ _

__"Come on, man!” Kaner whines like a fucking baby and it shakes Jonny out of his stupor. “I’m like, totally offering you my ass virginity here.”_ _

__Jonny looks at Kaner. Objectively he has an okay face—nice smile, dimples, big blue eyes—but horrendous hair. He’s on the team, so Jonny knows he’s got a good body, wide chest and shoulders and good muscles. He’s an annoying, but cool guy, all things considered. Like, they’re good friends._ _

__Objectively, Jonny could probably do worse._ _

__Plus, since they know each other, he wouldn’t have to deal with the awkwardness of chatting someone up, or having to find some kind of pillow talk or something. Not with Kaner._ _

__And Jonny knows the benefits of practice._ _

__“You can be better, Jonny.”_ _

__Heh, why not?_ _

__"Yeah, sure,” Jonny says with a shrug. Let’s face it here, Kaner’s probably horrible anyway. Jonny’s doing his whole future freshmen class a favour here._ _

__“Yessssss.” Kaner fist pumps the air. “Sorry, Mrs. Brown!”_ _

__“Let me finish my homework,” Jonny says, opening his book again. “Meet me after school. My house.”_ _

__“You won’t be sorry, man. Imma rock your world.”_ _

__He gets up and slaps his own butt before leaving. Jonny does not stare._ _

 

 


	3. poolside angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part of a longer shared verse that never got written. Pining, obliviousness, anger. Contains Jonny/OMC.

 

 

Jonny finds him by the pool. Patrick’s looking a the shifting lights in the water, turquoise-bright in the night. Behind them, he can hear the sound of the party that’s moved from Sharpy’s backyard to his living room when it started to drizzle and hasn’t moved out again when it stopped. Except for Patrick.

He takes a long swig of his beer and doesn’t look at Jonny.

“Do you have a problem with Eddie? Me and Eddie,” Jonny says, blunt and straight to the point. Eddie. Edward. Patrick would think it funny in any other circumstances, but right now, he can’t even muster a chirp about it. “Because you’ve been a dick all afternoon, man.”

Patrick follows the slow glide of a bright pink pool noodle over the water, takes another swig of his beer and chugs it into the grass when he’s emptied it. He picks up another bottle from the cooler by his feet.

“Do you know—” he starts, takes a sip. “Do you—you sort of ruffle his hair when you think he’s said something funny or—like, I don’t know. You sort of—you—”

“What?”

“And like, you… put your arm around his shoulders, too.”

“I—Christ, you’re drunk.”

Patrick hums and takes another large gulp. “Well, yeah.” He’s feeling pretty loose actually, except for the heavy weight in his stomach, or his chest. Can’t fucking shake it off. He thinks if he fell in the pool, he’d sink right at the bottom. Jonny would probably jump and fish him out. Bastard. Always have to be the hero.

“You touch him, you know?”

Jonny snorts and runs his hand through his hair, down his neck. Patrick can see it in the twisting, shifting reflection in the water, and it’s easier to speak to that Jonny, somehow—all shadows, less substantial. 

“I—Why wouldn’t I? Do you have a problem with that? Jonny’s voice is clipped, bordering on angry.

Patrick wants to say no, but that’d be a lie, and Jonny wouldn’t get it, not the way Patrick means, so instead he just shakes his head and takes another sip of beer.

“You—You touched me like that. Before." Jonny goes very still. Even his shifting water-reflection seems to stop moving for a moment. "You don’t. Anymore.”

Patrick closes his eyes. The ground shifts under his feet so he has to open them again because he feels like he’ll fall. Somehow, he’s turned toward Jonny and he has to blink a few times, eyes fixed on his throat.

“Pat, what—”

“When—” Patrick licks his lips. Jonny has a bruise on the side of his neck. Patrick can’t look away. “I mean—You used to. I didn’t know, but—”

“Shut up.”

“When—” he tries again. “You stopped, and—”

“Shut. Up.”

“Jonny. I want—”

Jonny grabs him hard by the shoulders and shakes him. “Don’t,” he says, face close to Patrick’s now, and Patrick can’t focus properly. Jonny’s eyes are dark and his face’s twisted with—twisted with _something_. “You don’t get to—Patrick.”

“You stopped, and I didn’t—but now I want—” Patrick wants Jonny to understand. Wants Jonny to touch him again like before, not like now, not brutal and angry, not with that pleading edge in his voice that Patrick’s never really heard before. “Jonny.” Patrick raises his hand, wants to smooth the line between Jonny’s eyes.

“No.” Jonny pushes Patrick, and he hits the cooler, almost falls over, and drops his beer in the grass. It rolls onto the cement with a hollow clinking sound. “I fucking—” Jonny’s taken a few steps back, once again runs his hand in his hair. “Years, Patrick. _Fucking years_. And now. _Now?_ You—No.”

Patrick takes a step toward him, doesn’t really know what to say to make this better. The grounds uneven, his mind’s uneven. Everything tilted sideways the moment he arrived this afternoon and saw Jonny with his arm around Eddie’s waist, and nothing’s felt right ever since. 

"You don’t get to do that,” Jonny says, back in Patrick’s face. “Not now. You just— _You can’t do that Patrick_.”

"I just—Jonny, I just want—”

“I don’t care what you want, Pat. You’re drunk, just—Just go home.”

And before Patrick can properly react, can tell Jonny to stay, just—just stay, Patrick can explain, can tell him… something—something that wouldn’t make him look like Patrick just punched him in the face like the worst kind of… betrayal. Hurt—Jonny’s gone. 

Fuck.

Patrick turns back toward the pool and stares at the water for a long time, until he thinks he can manage walking without falling. He pushes the empty bottle of beer with his toe and lets it roll into the water.

 

 


	4. hitmen!AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first part written for a 'first line' meme. non-chronological. implied violence.
> 
> First line prompt: _"Alright," Kaner says, looking somewhere past Jonny's shoulder, like he can't meet his eyes. "Just go, and don't come back for me, not for fucking anything, man--I'll meet you."_

 

 

_i_

 

 

"Alright," Kaner says, looking somewhere past Jonny's shoulder, like he can't meet his eyes. "Just go, and don't come back for me, not for fucking anything, man--I'll meet you."

“Kaner—”

“I mean it, Jonny.” He turns his head, eyes on the far wall then down. His fingers clench and un-clench into nothing the way they do when he’s holding himself in, tight and as controlled as he can be when there’s nothing much stopping him from falling apart. Jonny watches. Kaner does this too, in the sheets of their hotel rooms, hard and sweaty under Jonny—long, thick fingers grasping, the tilt of his chin to the side with his jaw tight—right before Jonny makes him gasp with it, makes him beg for it. Tells him to—

“Look at me.”

It’s exactly like that. And also nothing like that at all. A horrible farce of it.

There are noises coming from outside, getting louder—an urgency that echoes in Jonny’s temples and in his chest, telling him to go go go go go. 

“Kaner, I—”

“I know,” Kaner says, looking back up at him through thick eyelashes, then over his shoulder again as he repeats it, lower, as if to himself. “Fucking go! Why can’t you just fucking do as you’re told for once?”

Someone yells, doors close. They’re nearer.

Jonny dips in and catches Kaner’s mouth with his, a painful crush of lips and teeth, and he takes Kaner’s chin in his hand, lifts it up, digs his fingers in, makes it painful. There’s a panic behind his lungs he’s never felt before and he can’t let go, can’t—

“I love you,” he says, words bruised between them, voice breaking and choppy. “I fucking love you.”

“I know. Don’t fucking come back for me. Promise.”

Jonny doesn’t—he can’t—just licks back into that mouth, that red and wet and perfect mouth, with shaky hands on Kaner’s shoulder and into his hair. 

“Istanbul.” Kaner says against his lips. “Hagia Sophia. 10am. Go.“ He pushes at Jonny, hands flat on his sides, then harder with his fists. "Don’t come back for me. I love you. I’ll meet you. Get the fuck out of here. Now, Jonny. _Now_.”

Jonny runs.

Hagia Sophia. Like that first time. Under the wide, golden dome with the light coming slanted through the windows limning Kaner’s hair in heat, in fire, his eyes violent blue and crinkling at the corners as he laughed at Jonny. Always laughing at him. And the scents of the city on Kaner’s skin later, under Jonny’s tongue—cumin and hazelnuts and olives—but sweeter, so much sweeter for the way he shook between Jonny’s hands, dick so thick and sticky. The way he bit his lip and licked at it in turns, looking almost surprised when Jonny went to his knees, smooth and easy, and slid the head of his dick into his mouth, gave it a good suck. The way he’d curled over him, his cheek almost on Jonny’s hair, panting filth against it. 

Like that first time.

Istanbul. Hagia Sophia. 10am.

Jonny keeps running.

 

 

_ii_

 

 

Kaner tells him what Jonny had known, had already guessed–three countries back and two jobs ago–one morning in fucking Seattle, of all places. They’d left the curtains open last night, and the light coming in is flat and grey. Raindrops hit the windowpanes with dullness, and the air-conditioned air still smells like sweat and jizz.

Kaner’s naked by the window, his profile edged in white, angled with deep purple shadows, blond hair looking dark and dirty in the bleariness. There’s a smudge on the glass, dick-height, like he’d rubbed it there, and Jonny rolls his eyes, a cutting pang of fondness behind his lungs like a knife.

“I was there to kill you,” Kaner says without turning, casual-like. His toes curl in the generic hotel carpet and Jonny watches from the bed as Kaner rolls back on his heels, then forward again on his toes, dick swinging and hitting the glass right on the smudge. Bulls-eye. He frowns, then, something ugly. “I was there to kill you and I couldn’t do it.”

It’s a weird mix of anger and confusion, there, in the spaces between his words. It makes Jonny sit up straighter so he can slide one leg out from under the sheets, set his foot flat on the ground. Kaner turns his head, watches from the corner of his eye, down at Jonny’s foot and smiles–a small, mean thing with the corner of his mouth that still flashes his dimple.

Jonny loosens his shoulders and puts both his hands on the duvet. “What,” he says. “Too pretty to kill?” He bats his eyelashes.

Kaner snorts, turns around and leans against the window. With the light at his back now, Kaner looks softer, smoother, and infinitely more tired. Smaller. “Yeah, no. I just–”

He groans in frustration, runs a hand through his hair and comes to sit on the bed–one leg bent, the other mirroring Jonny’s, feet facing each other–and scratches his balls. 

Jonny kicks him with the foot still under the covers. “What?”

“I just remembered you, you know? I mean. They gave me your name and your picture, and–I knew it was you. I recognized you, I did. But I really didn’t–Like. Not until I saw you.” His fingers curl around Jonny’s ankle over the sheets, and he gives it a shake. “I loved your hockey, man. _We played together_. What are the fucking odds?” Kaner looks up then, right at Jonny, eyes wide and searching, maybe a little bit scared, too. The kind of fear that isn’t supposed to exist in their business. The kind of fear that gets him thrown in a river, a knife in his gut. With fingers scrabbling up Jonny’s legs, pulling the covers down until he’s touching bare skin, he says it again, twisted and broken, “What are the goddamn fucking odds?”

Jonny doesn’t think, just pulls at his arm, then his shoulders until he’s got Kaner wrapped up against him, cheek on his chest, holds him like that until the frenzied, ragged edge of him has smoothed out.

“You’ve left an ass-print on the window,” he says then, and laughs when Kaner punches him in the gut.

 

 


	5. facial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> explicit.   
> written after an anon said: "Ok am I the only one who wants to read about Kaner jerking off on jonnys bruised and scratched face?"

 

 

Patrick holds Jonny’s face between his hands and kisses him—first soft, just a brush of lips, then wet, tongue licking at Jonny’s bruised bottom lip, tasting a bit of blood there, the swollen skin hot under his tongue.

Jonny makes these little whimpering sounds against Patrick’s mouth, little whines from the back of his throat that Patrick just loves—it’s fucking hot, yeah, but it’s also… Jonny doesn’t let anyone else hear him that way, would never, and Patrick’s just so into it. It makes heat pool in his stomach, makes him push harder against Jonny’s mouth, careless of the bruising, to lick inside of it.

It’s Jonny who breaks the kiss, panting wet on Patrick’s cheek for a moment before going to his knees, hands on Patrick’s thighs to open his legs a little, steady him. Patrick lets him do it, can’t really do anything else but look at him for a moment. This will never not be somewhat surprising, surreal even, having Jonny on his knees in front of him like that, mouth slick and puffy, lips parted, and dark eyes looking up at him.

Jonny doesn’t move, just tilts his chin up and raises an eyebrow, and Patrick drags his fingers through Jonny’s hair, rakes his nails against his scalp, the back of his neck. “That what you want?” he says, softer than he intended.

“Nah, this floor is just surprisingly comfortable,” Jonny says, rolling his eyes. 

“Yeah, okay asshole.” Patrick twists his fingers at the back of Jonny’s head and pulls a little, taking his dick out of his sweats with his other hand. 

He’s already almost all the way hard, never can quite help it when kissing Jonny, totally easy for it. But he doesn’t give a fuck because Jonny’s easy for this, on his knees, and he’s hard too, pushing on his dick with the heel of his hand, and looking up at Patrick with half-lidded eyes and his tongue poking at his bottom lip. He keeps sucking it into his mouth too, like he can’t help it, and Pat rubs his thumb across it, pushes on the bruise until Jonny inhales sharply.

Patrick gives his dick a couple harsh strokes, then rubs the head of it against Jonny’s lips, dips it inside just a little. Jonny licks it with the flat of his tongue, just opens up his mouth and sticks it out, makes it sloppy the way he knows Patrick loves while Patrick moves his hand, lazy with it. 

It’s only once Jonny’s breathing faster again, once he’s making those little whining sounds once more, that Pat takes a small step back, widens his stance. He gets a harsher grip on Jonny’s hair and starts stroking his dick faster. Jonny’s all flushed and Patrick can feel him start sweating again, heat on the palm of his hand.

It can’t last long, not like this. Not with Jonny’s bruised face looking up at him, his mouth slacked open, chin wet with spit and a bit of blood, lips swollen, cheeks red. Not with the way he’s resting his head in Patrick’s hand, chin up and waiting, just waiting for Patrick.

He’s so fucking beautiful, Patrick can only fuck his fist harder. 

It used to weird Patrick out, how willing Jonny was for it, how he’d just—let himself sink into it. But there’s something now, about the steadiness, the fucking unflinchingness he has. Jonny wants it, and lets himself have it, and Patrick just wants to give it to him, wants to mess him up.

Patrick comes with a small shout, toes curling into the carpet, and forces himself to keep looking—doesn’t want to look away, not for a second. Come streaks Jonny’s cheeks and chin, and Jonny’s eyes flutter shut as he moans. He doesn’t stick his tongue out, just waits and leans into it as Patrick keeps coming, keeps dirtying him.

 

 


	6. drunk jerking off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> explicit. (accidental voyeurism in the end notes)  
> inspired by this [nsfw gif](https://68.media.tumblr.com/6d9877ff8fb1dffbaf99d07e9252f03f/tumblr_ndtl93Ecjl1u1mo3do1_500.gif) and these tags: #drunk exhibitionist jonathan toews #is at it again #just trying to get comfortable

 

 

Jonny’s really drunk. Drunker than he gets usually, but not drunk enough he can’t walk or talk, fuck you Sharpy. Somewhere way at the back of his mind he’s conscious that he’d been slurring his words something fierce and sometimes even slipped into French without realizing, but whatever, he’s good. It was a good night.

When he comes back to his room, he wants—god his clothes are just itching on his skin, like the fabric’s catching on his pores, like it’s sandpaper, and he can feel everywhere it sticks to him with sweat and beer. It’s gross. He undresses as quick as he can, holds himself up with a hand on the wall, with his shoulder, then falls face first on his bed with a _oomph_.

The sheets are cool and smell fresh and clean. Jonny’s mind is fuzzy, his limbs pleasantly heavy and uncoordinated. He wriggles around to get comfortable, loving the way the AC cools his overheated skin, and how plush the pillow is under his head. This is _such_ a good bed. 

He doesn’t realize he’s hard until the head of his dick catches on a fold in the sheets and sends heat along his spine, tightens his gut. He stills for a moment, then he shivers, full-bodied—goosebumps erupting all over the back of his thighs, his ass, over his back—and moans, deep in his throat where it’s scratchy. He hitches a thigh up and just—pushes back down with his hips, tries to get the angle right until his dick catches again, and again… and again.

He makes these little noises, grunts and whines and happy sighs at the feel of it all over his skin, can hear himself distantly, but it just feels so fucking good he can’t bring himself to care. The way the sheets slide on his skin, warming up as he moves against them, trapping his dick between his stomach and the bed, rubbing his balls, it’s—fuck. Jonny can’t get enough.

More Involuntary little sounds spills out of his opened mouth until he gasps on a particularly good hip thrust, and buries his face in the pillow, hitches his thigh higher. He mouths at his arm, lick at the bone of his wrist, sloppy and wet, and wishes he could maybe kiss someone, or fill his mouth with something, anything, make himself shut up. He gets an arm behind him, then, grasps at his ass, pulls at the meat of it a bit, fingers digging along the crease. The cool air feels good along his crack, on his hole, makes him shudder and push down harder into the bed.

He thinks about getting his fingers in there, opening himself the way he likes to, but that’d mean getting the lube from his bag and fuck that, Jonny doesn’t want to leave this bed. _It’s a really good bed_. He’s got a good rhythm going, so he just skims his hole with a dry finger while he moves his stomach from side to side to rub the head of his dick tight and rough, the way he’d do it with the palm of his hand normally.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Pat was reading in bed when Jonny came in, unable to sleep, even though he’s tired and sick. But now he’s just—frozen. He stares at Jonny on the other bed, naked and getting himself off by rubbing one off on the bedspread, filthy sounds filling the silent space.
> 
> Pat can’t—what. _What?_ Did Jonny just forget he was there or…)


	7. first line: daddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mature. daddy kink-ish  
> first line prompt: _"You gonna give it to me, daddy?"_

 

 

"You gonna give it to me, daddy?"

It was just a joke, Pat thinks, just a stupid fucking joke, and he has no idea how it got to this. This being Jonny, half-naked with only his tiny black underwear on–the ones that show off his ass, high on his thighs and tight over and around the meat of it all–sitting on the edge of the bed with legs splayed wide, toes curling on the rug as he leans back on his elbows, abs hard and dick thick, the red, shiny head poking out of the elastic band.

Pat’s got his hat in his hand, twisting it between his fingers, and he sees himself for a second there, in the doorway to his bedroom, fidgeting like a guy who’s never stuck his dick in anything wet before. Not like a guy who just got one of the fastest boners of his life–heat rising under his skin, prickling at the back of his neck and filling his throat until it clicks loudly when he swallows. 

He chucks his hat to the side, runs his damp hands on his jeans, using that as an excuse to run the wide side of his palm and thumb along his chub.

“God, fuck you,” he says, taking a step in, voice low and reedy, forcing him to clear his throat. “You don’t have–it’s not–I mean.” He gets a hand on his lower back, catches a drop of sweat there that’d slip all along his spine, with the fabric of his shirt.

Jonny pinches his lips together, and his legs close a little. Pat sees because he’s looking. But then Jonny opens them again, wider even, lifts his chin up and looks down his nose at Pat’s dick–harder now, more noticeable in his pants–and up to Pat’s face, says, “I want it… daddy,” tongue almost curling behind his teeth on that last word. The sound of it flares up so fast inside Pat, he gasps, has to take a deep, shivery breath into his burning lungs.

God. It was just a joke, just a–something Sharpy picked up on from somewhere, Edzo maybe, who the fuck knows. Roof Daddy, it said. Big Daddy something or another. Caught like fucking fire, it did, because his teammates are assholes.

Pat somehow gets his legs to move him so he stands between Jonny’s legs, looking down at him. He reaches out and runs a knuckle along Jonny’s jaw–he always looks so good this way, the line of it sharp with his eyes half-closed and dark, mouth open, always so open. Fucking mouth breather. Pat pushes at his jaw a little and Jonny gives a small smile, wets his lips, so slow it has to be deliberate, has to. 

“It’s weird,” Pat says, slipping his hand along Jonny’s neck to grab at his nape, soft hair between his fingers while his other hand goes to his fly, like part of his mind knows what he wants already, knows he’s gonna get that mouth good.

“You like it.” It comes rough sounding, strained but certain too, and Jonny wets his lips again. Less deliberate this time, Patrick thinks, what with the way his eyes flicker to Pat’s hand pulling his dick out now, with the way his tongue is half out of his mouth already, so fucking hungry for it, just waiting for Pat to rub his dick on it. 

Jonny gives a forward lurch, but Pat stops him, tightens his fingers in his hair, holds his dick at the base. “Only–” he says, tugs until Jonny looks up at him. “Only. Just–you. You know? Just.”

Jonny smiles, then, blinking slow and pretty, his face all flushed red the way that always sends Pat reeling a little, heat in his gut. “Wanna suck your cock, daddy,” Jonny says, that goddamn word curling tight and hot in Pat’s chest. Jonny says it like a fucking porn star, too, flicks his tongue out as far as he can, catches just the slit of Pat’s dick, the beading wetness there, and Pat wonders if he’s looked into it, jerked it to porn maybe, taking fucking mental notes. Ugh, he probably did.

“Yeah?” Pat says, while rubbing the deep red head of his dick over Jonny’s slicked lips, enjoying the way Jonny’s mouth go soft with it, willing. “You sure?”

“Yeah, Pat. Daddy. Want it,” Jonny says, slurred and wet and muffled against Pat’s dick. He grabs at one of Pat’s belt hoops and pulls. “Come on. Give it to me, daddy.”

Pat takes a deep breath, widens his legs a little. “Okay.” He lets go of Jonny’s neck, sweep his thumb over his eyebrow instead, down his nose until he’s pushing on Jonny’s chin, already wet with spit and pre-come, already so sloppy and Pat hasn’t even started properly messing him up. “Open up, baby. Gonna make it so good.”

 

 


	8. first line: clothes sharing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first line prompt: _"Is that my shirt?" comes Jonny's voice from behind him, lilting up in confusion._

 

 

"Is that my shirt?" comes Jonny's voice from behind him, lilting up in confusion.

Pat startles and almost drops the socks he’d been folding. He’s about to say no, of course not why would he be wearing Jonny’s shirt. In his house. Alone. While folding his laundry, that’s crazy—it’s right there on his lips. But then he remembers: UND shirt with _Toews_ written on the back. Kinda hard to deny that. Fuuuuuuuuck.

So he plays it cool, and shrugs without turning. “Yeah, man.” He clears his throat. “You left it here the other day and I needed something clean to wear.” He turns around and makes a vague gesture towards the clean pile of clothes folded on his dresser. Real smooth. Perfect lie. A+. 

Pat’s a fucking champ.

Jonny still looks confused, though, dark eyes roaming over Pat’s chest. Pat raises a hand to rub at the shirt, clinging a bit to it—it’s soft and well-worn—uncomfortable and hot under the skin, not helped at all by Jonny’s silence. 

“I—” Pat starts. “I’ll wash it, no worries.”

Jonny’s eyes snap to Pat’s face and he stares for a beat, then two, then—

“Sure,” he says, rolling his shoulders and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Whatever. I left your stuff by the door, and your key’s on the table.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Jonny nods, stays a bit longer, looking at Pat—with that freakish stare of his that makes Pat feel like Jonny can see into his soul or some shit, it’s that unnerving—but then he just says, “Okay,” and “See you later,” then leaves. 

Pat exhales long and hard when he hears his front door close. And that’s that.

****

Except it isn’t. 

Two hours later, Pat’s in his kitchen lamenting the lack of food in his refrigerator when he hears his front door open and close. He… should have locked that.

After a few seconds, Jonny comes in the kitchen with long strides and an even freakier look on his face than before (he has a lot of freaky looks okay, Pat’s cataloguing them). It’s the determined one. The one that wrenches victories out of defeats. It’s stubborn and arrogant in its deep certainty that Jonny’s gonna get what he fucking wants and Pat’s never had it directed at him before. 

He takes a step back, but he also is really fucking into it. 

He’s a weak, weak man. Weak for the Toews.

Jonny crowds him against his pantry, so close it forces Pat to look up at him, head pushing back on the cupboard and making his back arch a little, almost touching Jonny’s. 

“Um. Did you forg—”

“I’ve never worn that shirt here,” Jonny says, voice low and certain and hot.

Shit.

Pat fidgets, looks over Jonny’s shoulder, hands fiddling with his sweats. So yeah, maybe he took the shirt. Maybe he saw it one day lying on Jonny’s bed and it was just—it was there and it was dark red and soft under his fingers and it had Jonny’s name on it and he just—he just wanted—He’s not proud, or anything.

“I—”

“Is that what you want?” Jonny says, stepping closer so their chests are touching now, hands coming up to Pat’s hips and lips by Pat’s ear. “Me all over you?”

“Oh, god.” Pat shivers, heat rushing fast and liquid in his gut, and dick fattening, Jonny too close for Pat to be able to hide it to—fuck. “Yeah.” It’s broken and rough when it comes out, almost whispered against Jonny’s neck. He’s so warm, Jonny, always so warm, and Pat can’t _think_. 

He takes a huge lungful of air when Jonny pulls back, just enough to be able to look at Pat, this time not so determined but—pleased. Pleased and soft and boyish, too, when he says, “Yeah?”

And Pat laughs, knocking his head against his pantry, knees weak, mind reeling, and dick still thickening. “Can I keep the shirt on?” he says, then, and watches the smile bloom on Jonny’s face.

 

 


	9. first line: bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first line prompt: _There's a fresh bruise blooming on Jonny's ribs as he peels off his shirt. Patrick wants to run his fingers over it._

 

 

There's a fresh bruise blooming on Jonny's ribs as he peels off his shirt. Patrick wants to run his fingers over it.

Jonny looks around for a moment, shirt in hand. Then, like the fucking slob he clearly is, he throws it on the carpet at the foot of the bed, kicking his shoes in the same direction in the process. Jonny glances at him with a small smile. Douche. 

They don’t do this often. They don’t—it’s not a thing, is what he means. But sometimes it just happens. There’s nothing in particular that sets it off, he thinks, no wins or losses or good news or bad news. It’s just that sometimes Patrick will look at Jonny, or Jonny will look at Patrick and there’ll be something there, a heaviness, a settling in his muscles, in his breathing, dick thickening in his pants.

Jonny’s chest is half-lit and cut sharp with light and shadows, looking wide and so fucking solid, the palms of Patrick’s hands itch. Jonny skims the bruise at his side with his fingers, soft, like a caress. It makes Patrick take the three steps that separate them to lay his hand flat over it. Even with his fingers splayed wide, it’s bigger, climbing up Jonny’s ribs.

It looks horrible in the low light of the bedside tables, garish and distorted, sickly tones fading into each other, all of it moving in time to Jonny’s breathing—a living, warm thing under Patrick’s fingertips. Jonny hisses when Patrick pushes with his fingers, sharp and loud between his teeth. From this angle, close as they are, Jonny’s face is chin and angles, a shadow over his eyes, warm brown and only partially softening the glint of his eyes, gazing back at Patrick.

It’s one breath, then another, and another, then a push of Patrick’s fingers, deeper and harsher, just to see. Jonny hisses again, but lower this time, from his throat. He bites his lip—flash of white on dark pink—and Patrick doesn’t know why, why it’s the fucking insignificant detail of Jonny’s scrunching up his nose, then smoothing out his face once more that gets to him—a sucker punch of heat to the gut. 

“Like this?” he says, rubbing into the bruise, up over each rib. He keeps his voice low, but it still sounds sharp in the silence, over the whirring of the AC. 

Jonny raises his hand to Patrick’s, and Patrick’s all ready to stop, to move his fingers to Jonny’s nipples instead, or down to his dick, hard and straining his his jeans against Patrick’s hip. But Jonny just holds Patrick’s hand there, says “yeah,” short and whispered like a secret. Patrick smiles and digs his nails in.

 

 


	10. first line: noir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first line prompt: _Of all the hockey rinks in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine._

 

 

_[ Of all the hockey rinks in all the towns in all the world, he walked into mine. ]_

Patrick sees him first.

The Geese and the Chupacabras are almost done warming up on the ice and Patrick’s about to go talk lines with Brandon—they have to be careful of the Chupas’ third line, especially the Lee kid. He’s thinking maybe shifting Bronson from the second could help—and there he is, walking down the corridor, hands in his pockets, breezy like he’s been here before, knows where he’s going.

Of course. Of all the hockey rinks. Of course.

Andrew’s checking tickets at the entrance, and he stops there, hands his ticket from the wallet he takes out from his back pocket. He hasn’t seen Patrick yet.

He’s still wearing boring beige chinos and black converses, blue shirt under a soft-looking sweater. Somehow still looks like a suburban dad.

_[ It figured, you know, that he would be the same. Like no time had passed at all. That he wouldn’t even have the decency of coming back a different person.]_

“I’m here for Paddy Kane,” he says as the takes the stub Andrew gives him, slipping it with his wallet.

“Actually, it’s just Patrick now,” Patrick says from behind, and watches as his shoulders tense for a moment, the straight line of his neck snapping up, before he turns.

His eyes haven’t changed either.

“Jonathan,” Patrick says, the word scratching his throat all the way up, dusty and stale. He licks at his lips to erase the taste.

“Patrick.”

_[ I’d never thought I’d hear that word again from those lips. He always made it sound special, like it meant something more. And after all these years, after everything, it still made me want things I shouldn’t want. ]_

“It’s okay, Shawzy. Go back to work” Patrick says without looking away from Jonathan’s—Jonny’s—face.

Patrick jerks his head to the side and walks toward the boards, not checking if Jonny’s following—he knows he is. A guy walks by holding three hotdogs in one hand and a basket of nachos in the other, greasy smell wafting after him, and Jonny makes a face. It’s a stupid face. It scrunches up real ugly for a second, and makes Patrick dig his teeth in his lip.

_[ I guess you never truly forget even when you think you have. All the little details, they’re still there like no time has passed at all. They fuck you up. ]_

Patrick runs his thumb over a scratch in the plexiglass. Damn. He had new panels installed only last week. They still have that clogging new plastic chemical smell to them, for fuck’s sake.

“Which one’s yours?” Jonny asks, leaning forward to look at the players. His profile is the same, sharp even in the fluorescent lights of the rink, but there are lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there before. A scar on in lip too. A bruise on his jaw.

“Blue shirts,” Patrick says.

Jonny looks at him sideways with a sharp twist of his lips. “The Wild Geese, eh?”

“Calm down, Canada.” Patrick gives a breathy laugh, turns to lean his on the boards. Petrovsky’s father’s sitting in his usual spot and Patrick waves at him. The air is cool on his back and he listens to the sharp, icy slide of skates behind him, to the faint echo of Brandon giving the kids his usual pre-game speech from the bench. He nods at Mrs. Leblanc as she passes. He waits Jonny out.

He remembers that too.

“I need your help, Pat,” he says eventually.

_[ And there it was. ]_

Patrick shakes his head, crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t do—not anymore, Jonny. I’m done with it. Have been for a while now.” There’s not much more to say, really. Jonny stays silent and Patrick gives him time to add something, make his case, but when it doesn’t come he gives a push and straightens up. “You’re welcome to stay for the game. I assume you still like hockey.”

He’s taken only a couple of steps—without glancing at Jonny, he’s told himself he wouldn’t— when Jonny catches his wrist, a strong tight grip, warm and too familiar. Patrick’s skin immediately buzzes with it. It hasn’t forgotten either.

He looks down at Jonny’s hold then up at him. Maybe it’s because Patrick didn’t shake him off, or maybe there’s a look about him Jonny wants to see.

“Peeks,” he says, pained and soft and pleading.

_[ If you’re not cheating, you’re not trying hard enough, he used to say. At the time we were playing cards. Simple games, really. Back then, he was always a good cheater, and I was always a game he knew how to win. ]_

“Boss?” Andrew says, and Patrick turns to see him take a step toward him, questioning look on his face. He shakes his head and Andrew takes a moment but eventually nods.

“Not here,” Patrick says, then, twisting his wrist around until Jonny lets go, and walks away from the rink, up the stairs to where his office is.

“Andrew’s a good kid,” he says as he goes. “But he will fuck up anyone if he thinks he has to.”

He closes the door behind them, muffling the sounds of the arena and making the 3 year old Blackhawks calendar stuck to it swing, scraping the metal. He waves at the musty. green couch for Jonny to sit, and leans on his desk.

“Why are you really here, Jon?”

“I really—I mean—” Jonny says, sitting down. “I know we haven’t parted on the best of terms.”

Patrick snorts. “You left in the middle of the night without so much as a by your leave, and I haven’t seen you in 7 years.”

Jonny rubs his face with both his hands, runs one through his hair, then at the back of his neck. Patrick used to dig his fingers in the muscles there, when Jonny was stressed, made him close his eyes and lean into it. Jonny’s eyes flick to him, and maybe he’s remembering too because he drops his hand, curls his fingers over his thighs instead.

“Pat. Peeks. I know I—There are things I couldn’t tell you, then. Hell, there are things I can’t tell you now, even. But I need your help. Please. For. For old times sake.”

_[ Old times sake. Old times. When we’d spend days in bed, fucking and fighting and, yeah, loving each other. At least, I thought it was love, then. I never wanted it to end. I thought it never would. ]_

“I told you—”

“I know, I know. It’s not fair—fuck—it’s not fair of me to come back here, after—after everything and ask this of you.” Jonny stands up and takes a careful step toward him, and Patrick grips at the edge of his desk, cheap metal digging into his fingers, so he doesn’t reach for him, pull him in.

The goal horn rings outside and startles them.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” Jonny says, low, close enough Patrick has to look up at him. “Please, Pat.” He makes it sound like the way he used to beg Patrick—ass sticking out, Patrick’s dick deep in, and tears at the corner of his eyes for how much he wants it. He makes it sound like Patrick can make it all come true.

Patrick should say no. He should—

_[ But I was weak. I was always weak for him, and maybe he knew that when he decided to come back into my life. That I was always gonna say yes. ]_

 

 


	11. messy sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> explicit. some comeplay

 

 

Jonny likes it messy.

“Where do you want it?” Pat says, throwing the condom on the bed and fisting his dick.

He likes ‘jizz and lube and spit and sweat _everywhere_ ’ messy.

And he’s a sight, Jonny. Always is. Like now, with his legs spread wide so Pat can see his wet, red hole he’d just been fucking, his inner thighs shiny with lube and still twitching from coming. His chest’s all blotchy and covered in jizz, some of it pooling in the groove of his abs, his bellybutton, the head of his softening dick sticky on his hip. He’s idly playing in the mess with his fingers, spreading it around while he catches his breath, blissed out with his eyes half-closed but watching.

Jonny always keeps his eyes open. He watches Pat watching him, and fuck, does Pat like to look. And Jonny–Jonny always wants to be seen.

“Come on, Jon. Focus. Where’s it gonna be?” Pat’s about to blow his nut and he needs–”Want it here?” he says, widening his knees and getting low again, sliding his fingers up just under the head of his dick to rub it behind Jonny’s balls, along the slick rim of his hole without pushing in. “On your chest? Want me to come on your face?”

Jonny quirks his lips, a lazy-happy smile, and drags his hand from his abs to his breastplate, slow and heavy, shiny trail of come following. “Here,” he says, rough and low, and tap-taps on the bone.

Pat’s so fucking close it doesn’t take much. He gets himself to move up, kneels beside Jonny, gives his dick a few good pumps and when Jonny raises his come-dirty finger to drag it along Pat’s slit–yeah, he’s coming.

He covers Jonny’s pecs with it, shakes his dick around to make sure he gets it as everywhere as he can. Jonny’s fucking covered with it, from chin to dick.

His eyes always widen a fraction in surprise when the first spurts hit him, like it’s something new and unexpected every time. Like he isn’t begging for it every time. His eyelashes flutter and he makes this sound from his throat–content, satisfied, fucking , _relieved_. It makes Pat’s dick jerk and shoot one last time, jizz landing right in the hollow of Jonny’s throat.

“Boom,” he says, breathless, watching Jonny watching him watch. Like a goddamn feedback loop of hotness, or something. 

Pat gets his fingers right in it, before Jonny can bitch about it, greedy fucker. It’d be impossible not to moan like a cheap pornstar at the way he parts his lips, knowing exactly what he wants. So Pat gives it to him, smears it on his lips–spit-shiny, come-sticky–and when Jonny pokes his tongue out, silently asking, Pat spreads his hand in the mess on his abs, rubs it into his skin, then grips Jonny’s chin. He presses two fingers on his tongue, lets him suck at them, so goddamn sloppy, with deep loud breaths through his nose. 

It’s easy then, to get his other hand right on Jonny’s nipple while he sucks, to rub jizz over it, get it wet and shiny and tacky. It’s not enough for Jonny to be all fucked out, he’s gotta look it too, gotta feel it all over. He’ll take hours, sometimes, to shower, just lying there, all messed up and pretty, talking hockey plays with come in his hair and dry lube between his legs. Long enough for Pat to get hard again and rub one out in the groove between Jonny’s thigh and groin.

Pat leans in quick, licks Jonny’s nipple clean, and gives it a good, harsh suck. It makes Jonny arch his back, opening his mouth around Pat’s fingers, so it seems only natural for Pat to give more to him, get more come, bring it up to Jonny’s sticky face, his spit-wet chin, and fuck right back in.

He drags his tongue up, makes it dirty, and pokes at the corner of Jonny’s mouth where his fingers are caught tight between his lips. He says, “Wanna fuck you bare, babe. Gonna mess you up so good,” and watches as Jonny rolls his hips and spreads his legs wider in answer.

 

 


	12. A/B/O!au (omega/omega)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> explicit.  
> fingering, dirty talk, semi-public sex, car sex.

 

 

Heat smells like ripeness–too ripe sometimes–on the verge of rot. Or fermented, somewhere between grape and wine, but sweet, too, thick and sticky like honey.

Pat’s is half-cooked apples and hop, syrupy in Jonny’s mouth, clogging in his nose. At least, that’s what it’s like to him. He has no idea if it’s the same for others, or if it would be for–

“Jonny,” Patrick whines, long between his teeth and going high at the end as he arches his back in the seat, shoulders lifting up. He’s got his hand between his legs, pushing hard on his dick, and Jonny can see the slick soaking through his pants and onto the leather when he glances quickly at him.

He tightens his fingers on the wheel. “Can you make it home?” he says, darting another look at Pat. He’s red and sweaty already, hair sticking to his temples, nipples hard and visible through his shirt. “Where are your suppressants?”

“Ran out yester–fuck. Yesterday.” Pat says, widening his legs as much as he can in the seat, two hands now on his dick, kneading at it with the heels of his palms through his jeans, high needy noises at the back of his throat. “Forgot–Jonny. I need–”

And fuck. Fuck it, they’re not making it home. The heat’s so thick already, Jonny’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He can feel it in his teeth.

He swerves to the right and parks the car by the side of the road. It’s dark and deserted and late enough that they probably won’t be bothered, but he still puts his four-flashers and the purple heat-signal on. The clicky sound of them a weird counterpoint to Pat’s little grunts. “Backseat. Come on,” Jonny says, unbuckling. “Gotta make you come.”

It’s good to open the door, to get a large whiff of damp summer air, cooler on his overheated skin than it probably is. It clears his head, where it’d been hazy and golden-ridged in the car, Pat’s heat pushing itself inside of him.

By the time he gets around the car, Pat’s already opened both doors on his side, and has flattened himself stomach first on the backseat, jeans down to mid-thigh and hips rolling hard, getting friction on his dick. He’s kicked off his flip-flops in the ditch, and it’s easy for Jonny to just tug hard on his pants, get them off all the way, so he can go on his knees behind him, right in the dirt, and spread Pat open, fingers sliding in all the wet mess covering his ass and thighs.

He slips two fingers in, easy, slick pooling in his hand. Fuck, Pat is so wet. His heats are always messy after he’s been on suppressants, fast and sudden and hot, like his body’s trying to catch up.

“Yesssss,” he pushes through his teeth. “Fuck–Jonny, come on. Make it–Fill–Just–”

Jonny leans forward, wants to get his tongue on it, right along his fingers. He knows Pat’s taste, how fucking delicious it is on his tongue–it fills him up with warmth, with fire, makes him a bit crazy, drunk and high and everything fucking nice. He stops himself just in time though, can’t right now, has to bite Pat’s ass instead, sharp and harsh and enough to make Pat push back into it with a low growl.

This isn’t going to get him to come though, so Jonny stands, drapes himself over Pat’s back as best he can in the space they have, wrist at a weird angle but still able to fuck Pat’s hole and slip another finger in.

“Gonna make you come like this,” he says, mouth on Pat’s shoulder, wetting his shirt with spit. “I know it’s hard, but you can–you–”

Pat’s hips are snapping so hard right now, really going at it, that Jonny barely has to move his hand, lets Pat fuck himself on it with sharp moans barely covering the squelching sound of his fingers going in and out of him.

The smell of hop is stronger in Pat’s neck, tinged sweet like candy, and Jonny flattens his tongue on his skin.

“Jonny. I need–”

“When we’re home,” Jonny says, lips dragging up to Pat’s cheekbone. “Gonna fuck you with it. However you like Pat, gonna fill you up with it. Knot you up all tight just the way you like.”

Pat whines high, turning his face into the seat and shuddering all over. “Want it now,” he says, muffled and slurred.

“I know, babe. I know. Would if I could, you know that. It’s gonna be so good though, once I get you in bed. So good. Big, fat knot in your ass.”

“Keep–Keep going. Talk.”

Jonny’s got four fingers in and he thinks he could get his whole fist in there without too much problem. They’ve done it before. Jonny curls his fingers so Pat can feel his knuckles pushing at his rim, tells him how he could–”Slip the whole thing in, Peeks. So wet. Get it all in. Just the way you like.”

“Want it,” Pat gasps, pushing back harder against Jonny’s fingers, up and hard, then down fast to get a good roll of his hips on his dick, and back up again.

Better than a knot, Pat’d said once.

And that’s how Jonny gets him to come, four fingers deep with the tip of his thumb just pushing in and _twisting_ , sharp and sudden.

Pat flattens himself down, dick spurting between his stomach and the seat, not as hard as he could, it never is this way, but Jonny can still smell it, salty and bitter through the sweetness of the heat, bright white through the golden-haze.

Jonny lets him catch his breath a little, rubs his nose along his hairline for a moment before slowly taking his fingers out, wet to the elbow with all the slick that’s run down his arm, hushing Pat when he whines a little. “Gonna make you come proper at home,” he says with a kiss to his cheek, pushing Pat’s wet hair off his forehead, getting his hair sticky with all the slick on his hand.

“Asshole,” Pat says, but turns his head enough to lick at Jonny’s wrist, eyes fluttering shut. “Jonny. You smell–”

“I know. I’m never far behind, you know that. Not when you’re like this.”

The air around them has barely cleared a little. They’re not done yet.

Jonny helps Pat get himself all the way on the seat, limp and heavy limbs already shivering again with heat-fever. His dick never even softened a little. He gets the seat belt awkwardly around him and takes a moment to slip his fingers in the come on the seat, brings it to Pat’s lips so he can suck on them a little. He’s always liked that and it settles him now. After a while, he opens clearer eyes to look at Jonny.

“Are you–” he starts, mouth sloppy around Jonny’s hand.

“I’ll be fine. Didn’t forget my suppressants, unlike _someone_.”

Pat rolls his eyes, and Jonny gets out of the backseat, re-adjusts his clothes that got all twisted up. The front of his pants is all wet with Pat’s slick.

“Not our first rodeo, eh?” he says, picking up Pat’s jeans and going for his flip flops, smiling when he hears Pat’s groan.

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll find a big, manly alpha to knot me,” he yells, and Jonny laughs, throws Pat’s jeans and shoes at his head before closing the doors.

He makes his way around the car, licks his lips for a little of Pat’s taste, ignoring his own slick running down his leg.

 

 


	13. 5 headcanons: hairdresser!AU

 

 

I

 

Jonny isn’t sure he should trust a hairdresser with a mullet.

“You’re not even here for a haircut,” the guy says, and Jonny raises his eyebrows. He’s not impressed. The guy tugs at the back of his hair, says, “I lost a bet,” not even embarrassed about it.

“I just want a shave,” Jonny says, finally stepping in completely into the shop and letting go of the door.

The guy makes an exaggerated grand motion toward the barber chair. “I’m Patrick,” he says, covering Jonny’s shoulder.

 

II

 

Turns out Patrick owns the shop. It used to be his grandpa’s and Patrick used to come in after school every day until his mom could pick him up. His granddad left it to him in his will, and Patrick couldn’t bring himself to sell it. So here he is.

Jonny learns this with his face covered in cream, unable to talk back. Patrick’s a sharer apparently, but his hands are sure and precise, quick and careful, and very very soft. It’s the most comforting and well-done shave Jonny’s ever had.

He keeps coming back. Despite the mullet.

 

III

 

The first time Jonny goes back to the salon after quitting his job, Patrick knows right away, is ushering him into the chair before Jonny can say a word. See–see, Jonny had to. Yeah it paid really well and had tons of benefits but it was making Jonny miserable and he was getting an ulcer, and he couldn’t stand it anymore. So now he’s unemployed and has no idea what to do.

Patrick’s hands are soothing on his face and Jonny finds solace in the familiarity of it. Patrick tells him his buddies Duncs and Seabs have a moving company and they might be looking for an extra pair of arms and Jonny looks in shape and does he want Patrick to give them a call?

“Just until you figure your shit out, man.”

Jonny might cry a little. Patrick politely doesn’t point it out. For now.

 

IV

 

So Jonny works for Duncs and Seabs, and goes to see Patrick after work. He helps him clean out the salon, sweeps the floor, listens to him ramble about the customers of the day, and after, they go out for a beer or order takeout and eat it in Patrick’s cramped and tiny living room above the salon while watching hockey.

It’s almost not a surprise when they kiss. Jonny even tangles his fingers in Patrick’s mullet while Patrick sucks his dick.

 

V

 

Figuring his shit out turns out to take time. Jonny feels lost sometimes, like he’s wasting his life, but then there’s Patrick beside him in bed, and he remembers that he’s still young, that it’s okay.

Patrick never wanted to ONLY be a barber, it just sort of happened, so Jonny starts helping him study for his SATs. They live in Patrick’s small apartment over his small salon and sometimes Duncs and Seabs drop by for beer and hockey and it’s good. There’s time.

Pat keeps shaving Jonny. For free.

And one evening, a year in, after he’s done closing up, Patrick puts a clipper in Jonny’s hand and sits in his barber chair and teaches him how to shave off his goddamn mullet. Finally.

 

 


	14. 5 headcanons: zombie apocalypse!AU

 

 

I

 

They call them Imps, here, the zombies. There was a priest a long time back that used to call them Impures and it kind of stuck. Plus, there’s something darkly funny about it, Jon thinks.

They’ve got a good thing going, a little community to themselves with high walls that protect houses and gardens. They even have their own water system. It’s as good as it gets nowadays. Far enough from the cities where things are the worst.

Jon thinks he might even be able to build a rink come winter. They don’t have many skates, or sticks, or anything–but it’d be a start.

 

II

 

Pat started sleeping in Jon’s bed not long after they found this place and got settled. He came back from his second run to the city quiet, pale, and red-eyed. He slipped into Jon’s bed that night, and Jon let him, slid his hand across the small space between them and held on to his wrist, thickness in his throat as he felt the rabbit-fast pounding of Pat’s heart.

Jon never asked what happened that day. And Pat keeps coming back every night. They don’t talk about it, but it’s easier anyway, to be close, to fall asleep to the sound of someone else breathing slow and steady, to have a hand on your shoulder or arm or face when waking up from a nightmare. It’s easier.

 

III

 

There’s a breach in the east wall one day and it’s chaos and it’s horror. Jon’s seen plenty of people die at this point–people he loved even–but it’s never easy, it’s never anything but a nightmare. And it’s a shock, too, a bloody reminder that safety and peace are fragile and temporary.

Pat’s screaming his name at the end of it, running down the street toward him. “I’m fine,” Jon says, hands shaking.

It’s not enough to hold Pat in bed that night, Jon has to press him into the mattress, has to kiss him, has to slip his dick into his mouth. He has to make Pat breathe harsh and loud, make him pant and swear, make him loud until his breathing is all Jon can hear beyond the wild rush of his own blood in his ears.

 

IV

 

Pat doesn’t come back from his supply run in the city. He didn’t make the rendezvous point. Jon knows why they had to come back without him, the risks of staying too long, especially with the night approaching. He knows.

They have to tie him to a chair to force him to stay.

After that, Jon takes over guard duty every day. He walks the wall, looks at the Imps in the fields through his gun’s scope and wonders. Wonders what he’ll do if he sees Pat.

 

V

 

Three weeks it takes him to come back to Jon. Three weeks and one day, and he’s there, covered in blood and guts and pieces of flesh, skinnier, too, and bruised around the eyes in a way that makes Jon hold his face between his hands regardless of the mess on him.

“What took you so long?” Jon says, voice cracking.

Pat leans his forehead on Jonny’s shoulder for a moment, utterly exhausted, then says, “Had to make a detour,” before grinning up at Jon, bright and bloody, and handing him a hockey stick.

 

 


	15. 5 headcanons: summer camp!AU

 

 

I

 

Jonny’s camp name is Hustle. Patrick’s is Showtime. They’re coaching staff at Black Hawks Hockey Summer Camp and they pretty much hate each other. No one knows why.

It’s possible they don’t even know. It’s just one of those things, you know? Jonny says something and it inevitably rubs Patrick the wrong way. Patrick just fucking breathes and Jonny has his judgy face on. It probably boils down to them being competitive as fuck.

They both play for different NCAA teams during the year and this is their first summer as staff at BHHSC.

 

II

 

The hatred diminishes as their mutual respect for each other’s hockey increases.

They start coming at free skate after dinner to practice together. Patrick stickhandling gets Jonny a bit hot, he’s not gonna lie. And Jonny absolutely destroys Patrick at the dot.

They argue and issue challenges and the kids at the rink take sides: Team Hustle or Team Showtime. By July, it’s 18-16, Showtime, and Patrick is insufferable about it.

 

III

 

They’re teaching the kids how to give and take a check, and how to work the puck along the boards. Patrick’s pushing Jonny on the boards with his body, mimicking a check while Coach explains how Patrick placed his body, how Jonny placed his.

Patrick turns his head then, sees Jonny’s red face, becomes suddenly aware of his slight squirming, how uncomfortable he looks, how–oh.

Later, Patrick finds Jonny outside, wants to apologize or ask him–fuck he doesn’t know–but Jonny’s staring at the lake and when Patrick comes closer, Jonny just glares at him, says, “Don’t,” and walks away.

 

IV

 

Jonny’s quiet after that. They still do the same things but… it sucks. Patrick wants Jonny yelling at him for ridiculous reasons–from Patrick skating, to the colour of his polos. Patrick… misses him. Jesus.

And Jonny can’t look Patrick in the face, feels embarrassed and, yes, maybe a bit scared. That’s why he decides to tag along for the weekend fishing trip with some of the students and staff. Two days away will do him good.

But when they all come back on Sunday night, just before sunset, and the rest of the camp is there to welcome them and take pictures of what they caught, Jonny automatically finds Patrick. Patrick in his flip flops and pink polo and golden hair in the fading light, and can’t help but smile.

Patrick watches as Jonny finds him in the small crowd and smiles, raises the enormous fish he’s got in his hands. Jonny pouts and shakes the fish head like it’s sad to be dead and fuck, what a dork. Patrick’s face hurt from smiling back.

 

V

 

They’re putting their gear away when Patrick muscles Jonny against the wall, gets all up in his space suddenly. Jonny pushes back in surprise and mild anger, but Patrick just answers back bringing his chest flushed to Jonny’s, slotting a thigh between his legs, grabbing at his forearms.

Jonny huffs and grabs at Patrick’s shoulders but Patrick swaps his hands away, body checks him back into the wall with his arms coming around Jonny to then tumble them down on Jonny’s bed. Jonny’s breathing hard under him, face angry and red and–yeah, right there, that slow blink and dry swallow, that hard dick along Patrick’s thigh–that’s what Patrick wants to see.

“You like being pushed around,” he says.

Jonny stares at him for a moment, then grins, tugs Patrick down with rough fingers on the back of his neck, pulling at his hair a bit, and kisses him.

“20-16, Showtime,” Patrick says, after.

 

 


	16. 5 headcanons: medusa!Patrick AU

 

 

I

 

So Pat’s at a party to celebrate the end of his 4 years college degree from hell, and he’s getting down on the dance floor, showing off his moves, having fun. He’s drunk off his ass ofc. And it’s awesome, everything’s awesome. Plus there’s this super hot chick attached to him, smiling down at him with white white teeth and large dark eyes. Her dark curly hair almost glow in the light and her skin is soft soft soft and when she laughs at him and says, “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?”, Pat–yeah fuck yeah Pat’s pretty. That’s what he tells her, he thinks because she laughs again, high and clear with an edge to it that’s a bit scary but that’s okay, because Pat likes that. Pat’s invincible.

And he doesn’t remember what she says, just that he’s laughing with it, head thrown back, then smiling at her wide, saying the dumbest thing he’ll ever say in his life: that Athena wishes she was this pretty, wishes she could get on that dick.

Here’s an advice to all of you future fuck-ups out there: never insult a Goddess’ beauty, but more importantly, never imply that a thousand years old Virginal All-Powerful Being wants your dick inside of her. 

Because being cursed by a Goddess sucks.

 

II

 

The Gorgon Curse isn’t THAT rare, but it’s not common either, it hasn’t been seen in a while, though, and it’s fucking unfair that Pat’s stuck like this forever because a Goddess was bored and went looking for an idiot to punish. For fun. But that’s the Gods for you.

He’s given special blinders that cover half of his face tight so nothing can get through, not even a sliver of light. No one can risk it. If he looks at someone and they look back, even for a second, they’ll turn to stone. If he sees his reflection he’ll turn to stone. He is, for all intent and purposes, blind. Except he ISN’T, and that’s–Pat HATES it. He’s got a room in his house with not reflective surfaces and a TV. His mom is scared he’s gonna see himself in the screen but Pat’s careful. He just–He can’t stay blinded all the time. Doesn’t want to. He can still read a book at night. He can still take off his blinder and look at the sky. He can still watch a hockey game on TV without anyone or anything telling him what’s happening. He just can never look at anyone ever again. Or at least, never while they’re looking back. He can’t be seen. He can’t–

At least they don’t sew his eyelids together like they used to do in Ancient times. At least he didn’t get the snake hair. Pat hates reptiles.

 

III

 

Taking long walks in the woods becomes his thing. He goes up the trails and there’s never anyone there. He buys himself some good hiking boots and just–goes. For hours. There’s no danger there. He can look at the trees and the leaves and the fucking boring rocks. He can look at the world and the world can look back and not be hurt by it (and okay there’s an unfortunate accident (or two) with a squirrel, but overall no one gets hurt). It’s lonely, but Pat learns to love it.

It’s also where he meets Jonny. 

Jonny’s into camping and survival and shit. It’s weird at first because Pat panics when he accidentally walks into Jonny’s little campsite, immediately looking up, searching blindly (ha!) in his bag for his blinder, saying, “sorry, sorry, fuck where is it? I’m gonna go in a moment, sorry. Can you–turn around man. Fuck. TURN AROUND.”

But once he’s got his blinder on, Jonny offers him a beer, and Pat’s heart is still hammering like crazy and it’s been such a long time that anyone outside of his family hasn’t sounded nervous around him. So yeah. Pat accepts.

 

IV

 

Pat keeps going back to see Jonny, days after days. Jonny’s funny and a dork and has wrong opinions about hockey. Jonny isn’t scared of Pat and lets him sit beside his little fire without his blinder on, says that he trusts Pat.

Pat didn’t know how much he needed someone to tell him that. He keeps his eyes cast down, but likes seeing Jonny’s shoes and legs coming and going into view as he walks around the camp.

He closes them tough, the first time Jonny kisses him. Tight and just as hard as his fists in Jony’s shirt, not sure if he wouldn’t be doing the same anyway even without the curse because Jonny makes his head spin, and Pat’s always been a romantic sap at heart, imagines that he’d be dizzy looking at Jonny anyway.

 

V

 

Jonny’s fucking into him, slow and strong, in the tight space of his tent, the air blue like the walls with the weak light coming through. At least Pat imagines so, because he’s put his blinder back on to make sure. He holds on to Jonny’s shoulders and digs his nails into his nape, pants his name, and it’s so good. So fucking good, with the smell of damp earth around them even though it hasn’t rained in days, the saltiness of sweat, with a sort of primal thrum running through his blood, wanting more, wanting it, “harder, please,”

It’s only after he’s come, with Jonny still hard inside of him, still fucking him through it that he feels Jonny pull off his blinder, and Pat closes his eyes tight, shakes his head. “What–What are you doing?”

“Look at me, Pat,” Jonny says, calm and breathless. But Pat won’t. Pat can’t. Jonny will die. “No, I won’t. I won’t die, Pat. I can’t.” Jonny brushes Pat’s mouth with his. “Trust me, open your eyes.”

And Pat does.

 

 


	17. dialogue prompt: coming out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: _“Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.”_

 

 

Patrick takes a quick look into the room, it’s just a glimpse but it’s enough. “Shit,” he says, then looks back again, somehow hoping it won’t be as bad as it first looked, but no, no it’s even worse. All those cameras and journalists and microphones and as yet to be voiced questions, all here for him, to hear him say–fuck.

“Hey,” Jonny says, low and close to Patrick’s ear, right over his shoulder. “Sorry, sorry,” he adds when Patrick turns quick, startled, and reaches out with a steadying hand on Patrick’s arm.

“It’s okay,” Pat mumbles, and it would be funny, the look on Jonny’s face right now, if it wasn’t for how Patrick feels like he’s going to puke any moment now, nerves all alight under his skin and not in a good way. He’s good in high-pressure situations, but that’s hockey, and this is–not. Not at all.

“You want me to go with you?” Jonny asks, taking a step forward, still keeping his voice low and soft. So close Patrick’s left to stare at Jonny’s collarbones, his neck, a point over his shoulder.

He shakes his head. “No, I–No. I want to do this, it’s just–” He asked for this, knows he doesn’t have to do it this way, but it doesn’t stop him from having all kinds of second-thoughts right now. He wipes his sweaty hands on his pants.

“Did I ever thank you?” Jonny says after a long moment, still with his hand, warm and comforting on Patrick’s arm, still so damn fucking close Patrick can smell the soapy-clean smell of him. “For telling me, way back when? I don’t know if I ever–You know, for trusting me.” His fingers tighten, curling a little in the fabric of Patrick’s suit. “It meant a lot. To me.” He gives Patrick’s arm a shake.

Patrick swallows, wishes he had one of those water bottles waiting for him beside the mic on the stage. “I know, man. I–Thank you, too, for… you know.” He shrugs.

“Hey,” Jonny says, and repeats it again until Patrick looks up, face going weird with how close they are and how hard it is to focus on Jonny’s face, wide earnest dark eyes and serious captain look turned up to 20. “I’m with you, okay?”

God, Patrick could hate him right now, feeling his nose prickle and his eyes itch. This is so not the time, fuck. “Yeah, man. Yeah. I–thanks.”

“Always, buddy,” Jonny says, then closes the little space left between them to engulf him in a hug, too tight and too–too much, but also–also… “Always.”

Jonny holds on until one of the Hawks PR people comes and tells Patrick they’re ready for him. Patrick’s never been more grateful for the neutral, professional and business-like look she gives him. 

“I’ll be here when you’re done,” Jonny says, and offers Patrick his fist. 

It makes Patrick laugh, and he bumps it before stepping onto the stage, trying not to blink into all the camera flashes.

 

 


	18. dialogue prompt: amnesia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: _“Teach me how to play?”_

 

 

“I guess I was good, uh?” Pat says, walking around his living room, looking at the pictures, peering close to the display cases: his silver medal, his rings, his trophies, all curiosity and no familiarity. Jonny wants to punch a hole in the wall.

“Not bad,” he says–clipped and flat–from his spot behind the sofa, with his hands fisted in the back cushions, a tremor in his knees that he can’t shake off, like the ground’s not solid enough to hold him. His nails make a dull scratching noise on the sofa’s fabric. 

Pat grins at him over his shoulder. “Liar.” 

Sun comes in bright and merciless through the windows, a giant spotlight on the side of Pat’s head, on the long red scar along his airline and temple, above his ear. They had to shave the side of his head to stitch him up properly, and later on Pat decided to keep it that way, keep it short on the sides and at the back and longer on top. He’d shrugged, said he saw a guy with it on the street and thought it looked cool, thought he’d try it himself. Like it wasn’t the strangest fucking thing in the world. Like it was something Pat would do–hey why not get a tattoo too while he’s at it, you know?

Jonny had to excuse himself to the bathroom and puke his breakfast into his toilet.

He turns his head away, can’t fucking look at Pat one more second, can’t stand the fucking sight of him with his trendy haircut and fucking skinny jeans or some shit. Jesus. The shivery spasms in his chest won’t stop every time he looks at Pat, and Jonny has to clench his jaw until his teeth grind together. 

_I have to leave_ , he thinks of saying, _I’m sorry, I have to go. I have to. I can’t–_

“Hey, Jon,” Pat says, and Jonny doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to see–him, Pat. Not Pat. Him. But he pinches his lips together and the muscles in his neck are hurting, tight and complaining, and he’s–

Pat’s smiling softly at him, and Jonny can’t decide if he knows, if he understands. He’s holding a puck–maybe the one he got his first NHL goal–turning it between his fingers, thumb sliding over the flat face of it, then hefting it in his hand like he’s figuring out the weight. 

_Fuck you_ , Jonny thinks, sharp and mean, because otherwise he will fucking cry, can feel it all stuck in his throat, ugly and wet. 

Pat throws the puck at him and Jonny doesn’t think, catches it quick and easy and it makes Pat smile wider, open and earnest and–pleading maybe, when he says, “Teach me how to play?”

 

 


	19. dialogue prompt: exhibitionism/voyeurism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: _“Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”_

 

 

Patrick’s _rudely_ awoken by something poking him in the side. “Ow, fuck. Jesus, stop,” he says, croaks really because his throat is dry as fuck and his lips catch on the pillow case when he talks.

Someone clears their throat and Patrick cracks open an eye, kind of sticky, eyelashes clumpy, blinks a few times to try and get things to focus in the too-bright room, and–yeah, that’s Jon sitting in the armchair across from him in his underwear. The small tight stretchy ones, because he’s a vain asshole with a gigantic ass.

“Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?” Jon says, neutral, raising an eyebrow.

“Uuuhhhhhh,” Patrick says, totally eloquent. “Is this not? Guests? What?”

Jon snorts and rolls his eyes, and that’s when Patrick’s mind catch up a little with the situation. 

1\. Yes, this is Jon’s room, Patrick recognizes the fucking boring beige of the walls with the pretentious moldings and the minimalist frames.  
2\. Patrick is, in fact, totally naked and not even under the covers–like he just faceplanted on the bed last night, which he probably totally did.  
3\. He has no reasons for any of it.

“S’comfortable?” he tries, voice cracking again and Jesus fucking Christ it’s hot in here. His whole back’s sweating with the patch of sun spilling on it. He tries to glare at Jon without moving his face from where it’s smushed into the pillow. “A good bro would close those curtains.”

“A good bro would not rub his bare ass on another bro’s bed without asking.”

God. Patrick hates when Jon’s got a point. 

Patrick takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and with a momentous effort and a loud groan flops himself onto his back, arm coming up right away to shield his eyes. He holds his breath for a moment but–nope, he’s good.

“Is that morning wood or are you just happy to see me?” Jon says, fucking dry like only he can be, and Patrick peers down at himself to see his dick all hard and red at the tip standing up proudly like the majestic beast it is. Man, Patrick loves his dick.

He clears his throat. “Oh good one,” he says. “Your wit fucking slays me.”

Jon stays silent for a long time, long enough that Patrick has time to let his mind wander a little, appreciate the sun on his skin, the light comfort of it, making him want to curl up like a cat and go back the fuck to sleep. Enough time to take notice, too, that his boner isn’t fucking going away. Traitor.

“Well?” Jon says, cutting through Patrick’s zen moment. “Aren’t you going to take care of it?”

What the–? Patrick rolls his head to the side to look at Jon, who just looks back steadily at him, exuding calm and smugness except for the chub growing at the front his underwear.

“It wouldn’t be very bro-like of me,” Patrick says slow, sliding the hand resting on his stomach down, pushing the base of his dick between his index and middle finger. “Not without permission.”

Jon swallows, hands going from the armrests to his knees, rubbing his skin, fingers gripping. “Come on,” he says, and Patrick grins at the slight breathlessness of it. “Showtime.”

Patrick throws his head back and laughs, flips him off. He makes sure to look at Jon, though, as he wraps his hand around his dick, gives it a good tug. Would be hard not to, to be honest, what with the pretty flush that blooms over Jon’s chest and face. And he’s not even ashamed of the sound that comes out of him when Jon slides down into the chair as he watches Pat’s hand and spreads his legs wider.

 

 


	20. dialogue prompt: cancun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: _You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”_

 

 

“You’re checking out my ass again,” Jonny says eyes not moving from the TV screen, tip of his beer bottle pushing on his wet bottom lip.

Pat deliberately leans back on his stool to give Jonny’s ass an obvious and appreciative look, and smiles. It’s just–there. All cozy and snug in Jonny’s small and tight swimsuit, round and perfect and too large for the stool he has to spread his huge thighs wide to be comfortable. Pat wants to get behind him and push him down on the bar with a hand between his shoulders and just–rub one out right there in the crease of it, tight and warm with the taste of tequila on his tongue, the sand and ocean at his back. Everyone would completely understand. 

“Hate to break it to you, babe,” he says, instead, turning back and taking a sip of his own Corona, “but everyone is checking your ass out, isn’t that right Carlos?” Pat adds as their sexy Mexican bartender walks by.

“SÍ, señor,” Carlos says, and Pat waves a hand, looking at Jonny. _See? Carlos-the-sexy-bartender thinks so, too_.

“Thank you, Carlos,” Jonny says raising his bottle to him, then giving Pat a small glare.

Pat scoots closer, pressing against Jonny’s side so he can put his chin on his shoulder and a hand on the inside of Jonny’s thigh where he can feel the muscle quiver there, says, “You know it and you love it,” low with his lips barely brushing Jonny’s ear, tasting faintly of salt when he licks them after. “Showoff.”

Jonny bites his bottom lip and Pat watches him blink fast, take a deep breath and another sip of beer, jaw working as he tries not to look so goddamn pleased about it.

Man, coming here was a genius idea; Cancun is great. They get to do fuck all except lie on the beach and swim and drink and Jonny’s walking around practically naked all the goddamn time. Tight wet swimsuit with water dripping down his chest, his skin all tan and warm. He drives Pat crazy. Like last night, when he rode Pat’s dick for _forever_ with slow rolls of his hips, and then tight little grinds, taking Patrick deep, the sound of the ocean outside their windows. Pat’s fingers gripped at Jonny’s thighs, slick with sweat, and never, not for one moment had Jonny let up, getting red and flushed and not stopping until he was sure that Pat was completely fucking destroyed by his ass. It’d be fucking awesome. 

“–you okay?” Carlos-the-sexy-bartender is saying when Pat tunes back in. “You fainted into my arms and–oh he says–you know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such, uh, extremes? Extremes, yes.”

“That’s what he said?” Jonny asks and snorts incredulously when Carlos nods. 

The TV’s playing their soap–“Telenovela” Jonny had said smugly like the douche he is, thinking he’s more cultured than Pat because he knows four fucking words in Spanish–they’ve been following it since they’ve arrived. Well, “following” might be a bit much but Jonny’s weirdly invested for some reason.

Jonny’s also totally admiring the nice view of Carlos profile while he looks up at the TV. Carlos-the-sexy-bartender-that-also-looks-like-a-telenovela-star’s jawline is indeed worthy of admiration, Pat’s not gonna lie about that, so when Jonny looks at Pat with a little grin, Pat winks back. 

“He will betray her,” Carlos says, all doom and gloomand super serious.

Jonny shakes his head. “God, what an asshole,” he says, like he fucking knows what this shit’s about. Pat’s gonna give him so much grief later, oh my god. 

The three of them look at the screen as Rodrigo meets with Rosalita evil twin sister after kissing Rosalita good night. Jonny lets out a disgusted sound and finishes his beer, slams it on the bar with a “I’m going for a swim,” fingers sliding along the inside of Pat’s arm as he gets up.

Pat turns to watch him go–feels like that’s all he ever wants to do–watch Jonny walk into the sun with his wide stride and his wide perfect ass. Watch him bend down to pick up a beach ball some kids kicked this way–way more than he has to, okay, fucking giving Pat a show and Pat knows it, and Pat will totally give him his thanks later. 

“You’re very lucky, señor,” Carlos says from behind him.

Pat smiles. “Fucking right you are,” he says, turning around. “Carlos, my man, make me one of those pineapple drinks with the tiny umbrellas. Extra tequila.”

Fuck yeah, Cancun is _great_.

 

 


	21. dialogue prompt: dirty motel crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: _“You did all of this for me?”_

 

 

Jon uses his left hand to unlock the door, holding tight to Kane’s upper arm with his other. A door slams shuts further down the corridor. They can hear the TV on in the room behind them badly covering the sound of a couple loudly fucking. 

Kane lets out a low whistle between his teeth. “Lovely place, you’ve taken me to. I see what you want now.” He waggles his eyebrows at Jon and fakes a moan.

“Shut up,” Jon says, and gives Kane a rough shove into the room. He stumbles, but rights himself quickly, grinning at Jon over his shoulder like he got one over him.

Jon deadbolts the door behind them.

“Oh, would you look at that,” Kane says, looking around the room with wide eyes and a hand on his chest, before turning back to Jon. He flutters his eyelashes. “ _Jonathan_ , you did all this for me?”

The room is a fucking dump. Small double bed with a threadbare duvet, old smelly carpet and stained curtains. The wallpaper is faded and ripping in places, the moulding yellowed and dusty, there’s a small table by the window with two metal chairs. The whole place smells like mildew and sweat.

“Only for you, honey,” Jon says, shoving Kane in the chest so he can pass, drop the grocery bag on the dirty counter beside the microwave. 

He busies himself filling the cup noodles with water in the small bathroom–cracked and rusty mirror, dirty toilet, but no window and that’s good–and when he comes out, Kane’s on his back on the bed, wiggling into the mattress.

“That’s the stuff,” he says, eyes closed. Jon doesn’t comment, just puts the noodles in the microwave, then settles himself in one of the chair.

He’s got a good view of the parking lot, wet and dark and shiny with the neon lights of the motel’s sign reflected over it. It’s a good spot. When the microwave dings, he stands up, gets the noodles out, sticking a plastic fork in both, then drops one of them on the bedside table. Kane doesn’t react.

Jon rolls his eyes even though Kane can’t see him, turns on the bedside lamp and goes to turn off the flickering overhead light. He takes off his jacket, drops his gun on the table beside his noodles, then sits back down to look at the parking lot.

He’s halfway done with his noodles when Kane speaks. “You should just leave me,” he says, voice uncharacteristically serious, and when Jon looks over at him, he can see Kane staring at the ceiling.

Jon snorts. “Not gonna happen, buddy.”

Kane shakes his head. “They’re gonna find me. They–there’s no helping that.”

“They’re not–”

“No, not–” Kane interrupts. “Not them. Who the fuck cares about them. I mean, the–” He waves a hand in the air, “others.”

Jon slowly puts his fork down, left hand covering his gun. “Who?”

“They’re gonna find me,” Kane says, raising himself on his elbows to look at Jon. The light from the lamp makes him look young and ugly and sad. “And they’re gonna kill me and everyone who stands in their way. That’s you, by the way, and–” His mouth twists. “And you’re a good man, Toews. You don’t deserve to die like that. Not for this shit. Not for me.”

Jon stares at him. For the first time since this thing started he sees fear on Kane’s face, and for a moment he feels it too, something heavy and dark in his chest. Only for a moment, before he shakes it off. Just one more of Kane’s trick.

He picks up his fork again. “Eat your fucking noodles,” he says, turning back to the window, the black night, the flashing ‘no vacancy’ pink neon light.

 

 


	22. Jonny/OMC: royalty!AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> explicit. blowjob.  
> Jonny with unnamed OMC. Was supposed to be future 1988. 
> 
> original note on ficlet: _once upon a time on twitter, someone (ahem) suggested it would be hot to read about prince!jonny getting on his knees in his expensive suit. It somehow became this idea of Prince Jonathan having small rebellions against his stifling environment, finding ways to assert himself, the whole of him, as to not suffocate–basically dirtying himself in controlled, chosen ways. And then this ficlet happened._

 

 

He’s got this down now, got it down to a fine art, really, practiced and steady. Still, the thrill’s there, that sharp zing of _something_ down his spine, that pools in his stomach, gets his dick so fat, so fast in his pants.

Jacket already on the floor, Jonny goes down to his knees smoothly, hitching up the fabric of his pants over his thighs to make it comfortable. He’s keeping the shirt on this time–silver cufflinks flashing in the light, tie tight around his throat. He’ll like it, he thinks, the way it’ll tighten slightly when he has a dick in his mouth. When he has to swallow.

The carpet’s so plush under his knees, a gift from Turkey. Expensive. It wouldn’t do to get come on it, get it all stained even though he wants to. Maybe he could, on that white spot over there where no one would see–except Jonny’d know. It’d be such a nice reminder of how he sucked a man’s dick against one of the columns. How he made him come all over himself and the priceless Turkish carpet. He gets hot under his skin just thinking about it. Thinking how he could be the one too, to take his dick out and jerk it until he’s striping the red and black pattern, getting it all dirty.

It wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t.

But it’s okay, he tells himself–swallowing’s nice too.

If he had more time, Jonny’d stay here for a while–bury his nose in the man’s crotch to feel the heat of his dick against his mouth through the fabric of his pants, breathe in until he can smell the sweat and pre-come under the soap. Sometimes, that’s all it takes to get him there–the hot thickness of a dick rubbing on his face and a harsh grind with the heel of his hand on the head of his cock.

Anyone could come in. Anyone. And Jonny’d be there, on his knees, face levelled to a man’s crotch, or his mouth full of dick. There’d be no hiding it–no–no pretending that it isn’t exactly what it is. Jonny listens for it–footsteps or fragmented sounds of conversations–a shivery dread thick at the base of his throat. It doesn’t stop him, though, stop him from lowering the man’s underwear real slow, fingers sliding along the skin, careful with it until he sees the man’s dick bob free. It’s hard and uncut, with the head just pushing past the foreskin, red and sticky already and Jonny–Jonny will choke himself on it.

He leans in then, gives it a good lick flat and wide, to catch the salty wetness of it, and pushes at it too, with his lips parted and slick, tongue poking at the foreskin until he’s got the head in his mouth.

Jonny moans, breath catching in his throat, getting real heavy between the legs. He slides his mouth down, tongue flat against the soft underside, makes it tight and hot, slicking it up, and closes his eyes to focus on that—the salty-bitter weight of the dick on his tongue and the way it stretches his lips wide, rubs at the corners.

This is what Jonny likes: filling his mouth with cock, and that moment, when it’s deep enough it makes his eyes water behind his closed eyelids. He makes it good, knows how, so good there’s always a point where they forget propriety, where they forget their place, and they can’t keep their hands to themselves, have to grab at Jonny’s hair, get their fingers in it so they can fuck in better.

Jonny’s so easy for it.

They’re so good for him, he sucks a little harder to let them know. Always.

Like right now, the man’s dick pushing deeper, his fingers twitchy, but holding on in Jonny’s hair, grasping and letting go and clutching again, and Jonny just opens up for him, relaxes his throat and lets the man bury Jonny’s nose in his pubes, collar tight around his neck. He was right to keep the tie on.

He knows what he looks like. What this looks like. He can see it in his mind, all the sharp, perfect little details.

It’s a bright day. The sun filters through the tall windows on his right, slanting in and bouncing off the gilded edges of the room with its intricately carved moulding. The silver threads in the heavy damask drapes shimmer in the light. Everything sparkles, he knows, clean and in place–rulers and levels have been used to center the vases, readjust the settees, straighten the frames.

It prickles at his skin, when he thinks about it, sees it behind his eyelids, the lushness, the luxury–and the stifled quietness, too, every sound absorbed by the tapestries and thick, textured wallpaper, even in this high-ceiling room held together by granite columns.

God, it even _smells_ expensive.

And Jonny, too. With his perfectly tailored, in-season suit–high-end fabric so fucking soft on his skin.

And with a dick in his mouth.

Jonny–Jonny in the middle of it all with a man fucking his face so good.

It’s so fucking good.

He rubs his hands over his thighs and sucks harder, then pulls back, just quick enough to let the man’s dick fall out from between his lips, quick enough to rub his cheek on it, get all the spit and come over his face before going back to it with a harsh suck.

He gets his hand on his dick, pushes hard on it. He’ll come in this suit, he thinks, has never done that before, but wants to now, wants to coat the inside of this nice, tailored fabric with his come, get the inside of his underwear sticky. Get it all messy, this thing made to fit everything that he is.

Jonny grinds into his hand with sharp, little rolls of his hips, fingers of his other hand coming to push at his balls. He gets his dick snug against his thigh, rubs the head of it there, the fabric catching on it, in the wetness, making it rough.

He comes first, spurting on the inside of his leg, deep shivers wracking his body, heat flooding his chest, up his neck. He comes with the man holding his head, both hands steady now, fucking in fast and Jonny goes soft with it, trembling a little and letting the man hold him up like that, up by the head, with his cock.

Jonny swallows it down, when it’s the man’s turn, can barely taste the come it’s so far back anyway, throat fluttering fast not to choke. He lets his jaw go slack, lets the man’s dick go soft, keeping it in so he can feel the come pumping on his tongue.

When it slips out, Jonny rubs his face on it, catches the last drops of come and the spit on his chin, on his fucked-out lips.

He’s got the next part down as well. The one where he falls back onto his haunches then stands slowly, knees and legs cracking. He bends down and picks his jacket off the ground, puts it on again. It sits on his shoulders just right, and before buttoning it, Jonny swipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb, gathers come there and then rubs it, smears it on the end of his tie, into the silk, where no one will see.

He doesn’t look in the mirror on the wall to his left, knows what he looks like anyway–neck red from his flush, from the effort, from coming. Face red, too, and chin messy wet and sticky. Hair all fucked up. Lips puffy, spit-shiny.

The man clears his throat, but Jonny doesn’t turn to look at him.

“Your Majesty,” he says to Jonny, with deference, with a breathless hitch to it.

Jonny nods, says, “Chancellor,” tonelessly as he can, but voice rough, cracking. The sound of it makes him shiver. He thinks about going to tea like this, sitting across from his mother and talking about the treaty with Norway with this voice. He wonders if she’d know, know how Jonny took that dick so good. All those dicks. How he makes them want it, all those dignitaries and princes and dukes.

When he looks up he’s alone, and the fabric of his pants sticks to the inside of his thigh with dried come. It makes him smile.

 

 


End file.
